


For the Living

by DrJekyl



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Bittersweet, F/F, Fix-it fic, Major Injury, Post-Series, asari mythology, but this is samara we're talking about here so, i did try for happy, i honestly did, quasi-destroy ending, why yes i am still salty af about the ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 20:16:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13888362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrJekyl/pseuds/DrJekyl
Summary: Samara's relationship with death has always been complex; her relationship with life and love even more so.





	For the Living

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AQLM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AQLM/gifts).



> Notes on the mythological figures appearing here are at the end. Thanks to oathkeeper and boshtet for their excellent beta services.

The world around Samara went still. Too still. Quiet. The screaming and thunder of the battlefield fading into nothing against the stuttering beat of her heart and her last, laboured, bubbling breaths. Black borders creeping into her vision, the rest painted in shades of grey and choking dust. Her knees buckled as the abomination withdrew its blade and moved on, past her, leaving her to fall where she would. The pain of that was distant, too.

Her death was upon her.

Samara had memories, greatly faded now with age, of a balcony, a railing, and a child forbidden to climb on either. The nascent awareness of her own will, separate from that of her mother, and the delight of her own daring. A handstand upon the very edge, skycars flashing below. Two hands. One.

She remembered, too, a fall. Too great for a fledgling biotic to properly arrest, too short for someone else to spot her and catch her. Certainly far enough to hurt, and badly. She remembered broken bones and a smarting head, and a full season of dinners with no chance of dessert. Pointed bedtime stories about Piares, Athame’s most beauteous sister, and how the goddess sometimes had to take the very brightest and boldest of souls away with her to the heavens, so that they might light the way for those who feared the dark.

But Samara also remembered, vividly, more so than the rest, trying again at the very next opportunity, testing her balance and strength and laughing while the wind whistled around her. Piares wouldn’t take her, not when the child-goddess laughed and cheered to see her dance upon the very edge.

As a maiden, she had been blessed, many times over, though not one of those blessings had proved both reliable and lasting. Dutious Kurinth, the Great Huntress, guided her aim and steadied her shield, of course. But all those under arms or working the wilds could beg her favour, and Samara was but one amongst an innumerable throng, and sometimes overlooked. As for Tevura, Ever-Maiden, the Wise Wanderer, Dark-Eyed Poet; she was bound by her nature to be wild and fickle, and could never give her heart and her favour to just one asari - though she might lend one use of her wits and her tongue for a day and a night. Her garrulous twin, Rerè the Swift, Rerè the Clever - she was a friend to anyone who sought to work and learn and trade, but her lessons were never free and the exchange always weighted in her favour.

Of the maiden-gods, it was only ever Piares who would come to Samara when, for the sake of a contract and a few credits, she lay bleeding and broken upon battlefields far, far from home. Piares would come to her, speak softly to her, reminding her of all she still had to live for. Triumph. Glory. Sex. Love. Discovery. Wealth. She was, after all, young and strong, clever and beautiful; like all such things, she knew in her most secret heart of hearts that she would live forever.

The matron came later, of course. Just as Kurinth served Janiri and Rerè apprenticed to Lucen, Samara lay down her guns and her armour, trading sword for ploughshare and labour for craft. But while Tevura fled from Exia and her offer of home, family, stability, Samara forsake her wandering ways and transient loves for a more stable, satisfying affair and an apartment in Serrice - though not before making use of Tevura’s sweet tongue for courting one last time. A handful of words here, encircled in bronze. A handful more there, excised from a will.

In the end, the blessings of the matrons proved as fickle as those of the maidens before them. And then, when words and bronze and home were no longer enough, when it all came back to blood in measures great enough for the other gods to forsake her, Piares still came. Piares, garbed as a matron, endured her rage without complaint and did not shrink for one moment from her anguish. And when Samara was emptied out, dry and hollow, Piares placed her feet upon a path that led her, not to a place amongst the stars, but to sacred halls and the Mother-Queen of Fate. A new purpose.

The Order had honed her, of course. She had knelt before the statue three times and, three times, disavowed all other gods, all other lives. They took the raw material of her life, her many gifts and lapsed blessings, reforging her with fire and hammer. Samara had sworn before Athame Herself to judge all and judge fairly in Her name, without fear or favour. She would return the unjust to the Great Goddess, the One Who Is Three, so She might divine the future from their souls and guide those yet to come along better paths.

At some point during the reforging Samara made peace, for the first time, with her own death. She had later, at times - news of a new victim, the damned village, Lessus, anniversaries of the death of... _another_ \- even longed for it. But when she reached out in that longing, Piares was not there. There was no room for other gods beneath Athame, not any longer. Only Athame could give live, grant death, and Athame bid Samara to fight and live for Her until she could no longer draw breath.

Samara was old now, even for one of her kind. Especially for one of her kind. Aches in her joints in the damp, burning in her lungs and legs during the chase. Less thrill in the hunt. Slower to reach, slower to react, leaning ever more on her biotics for that precious edge and victory. She had not expected to survive this war, had planned her final months accordingly. Here, now, she would die, doing something that mattered, having accomplished all she set out to do in life.

Her knees buckled as the abomination withdrew its blade.

_Not all,_ Piares said, reaching out to steady her in the moment she faltered. _You've not done all you set out to do_.

She had laid Morinth to rest, Mirala with her. The ghosts of the unjustly dead would no longer haunt her. She had served her people, and served something higher than them all. That was all anyone could ever want. All she’d ever truly wanted.

_Not all_ , Piares said, catching her as she fell. _And you have never wanted that. This._

She had wanted an end. For centuries now, she had wanted nothing more than an end to it all. The hunt. The shame. The anger. The grief. The loneliness.

_Not even that_ , Piares said, lowering her gently to the bloodied earth. _It is not in your nature to wish for an end._

Samara had wanted...

She wanted time to mourn Rila properly. To carve a memorial cairn in her name, and sing of her bravery so all would know what new star in the sky shone so brightly. And she had wanted to see her remaining daughter again, hug her one last time. Hold her, one last time. Little Falere, steel hiding behind sweetness, just like... _another_.

Another. Goddess. She had wanted _companionship_. Love. To spend her last few decades in graceful decline with one she loved, who loved her in return. She had wanted a place to call hers after so long with nothing but service to others. She had wanted a family again. A home. A chance at happiness.

_Joy_ , Piares said, smiling. _You seek joy. And it is within your reach._

Within her reach? There was only one answer to that. Only one who reached out towards her first. Who had held her once, who had come to know her so well, so quickly, that they had wanted more but known without asking that it could not be given.  Kindness.  Affection offered with hope, but without expectation.

Shepard.

_One who upends fates and one who rails against her own,_ Piares said, and knelt down beside her. _It is a match well-made_.

Rail against her fate? That was not true. Samara was sworn to Athame; she had surrendered to it.

_Have you never wondered why you have my favour, Samara?_ Piares caressed her cheek, her touch cool and light, like falling rain. _I am the The One Who is Four and the One Who is Not. I have shadowed your every step. The child who defies is the matriarch who resists. The maiden who fights is the matron who surrenders. All that you do, you do with all you are. All that you are, you struggle to be. Even your wounds you suffer no less than fully._

Piares bent down and kissed her, breathing life back into her lungs. Fire flooded through her body, her every cell.

_Your trials are over. The battle is won. Rise now and soothe the hearts of those who would weep for you. Do no ask me to bear the weight of more grief amidst all this._

The word swam back into focus. Colour. Red light. 

_When you are truly ready to walk at my side, I will be here._

Agony.  A scream, rising raw and defiant in her throat.

_Until then, my warrior, I bid you_ live _._

* * *

Shepard was surprised to see her.

She tried to conceal it, but it was written in every line of her face and body to one practiced in reading such things. Samara didn’t mind. In truth, she was surprised to be here. That Shepard herself was here. The last parting, their last conversation; both held notes of finality, an acceptance that this was, if not the end of all things, then certainly end of _them_ \- as individuals, as what they might have been together.

They did not expect to survive, either of them. Yet, here they were.

“Shepard,” she said, stepping up to the hospital bed. And then sitting down, with rather less grace than she would have liked. The great, raw scar in her belly protested the move, a stark reminder that she was, in truth, not at all far removed from her time in a similar place.

Shepard’s surprise faded quickly, replaced with a look of obvious relief and happiness, one that undid a small, tight knot of _something_ deep within Samara’s chest. The feeling was soothing, one of warmth, peace, and she matched Shepard’s smile without hesitation. And when Shepard reached out a hand for her - tried to - she reached as well, without hesitation.

Their hands fit together perfectly.

“Samara,” Shepard said, a note of wonder in her voice, one that undid another little knot. “Your uniform- you’re not-”

She coughed, hard, and Samara waited for the moment to pass. She could offer no aid, and Shepard deserved more than empty, sympathetic platitudes. Observing, enduring beside her without comment would suffice.

“I have been considering my future,” Samara admitted when all was quiet again. “I nearly fell in the final battle for Serrice. So very many of my fellows perished there and elsewhere that I may be the only Justicar left. If that is the case, I am not sure that I am the right person to lead the Order into a new era. Yet it has been the defining feature of my life for over four hundred years. I’m not sure that I can truly set it aside. But the Code requires absolute devotion; I cannot wear the raiment until I am certain of my commitment again. Or not, as the case may be.”

In truth, she felt naked without her armour. Her headdress. The golden gorget. As though a target were painted upon her spine, as though all eyes, asari and alien, were upon her. Even though the truth of the matter, her experienced reality was entirely the opposite; in simple, casual clothing, she looked like any other former huntress pulled from retirement to fight a desperate war. Few heads turned her way. No children sought her mark or her stories under the wary eyes of their mothers. No maidens straightened their spines in an unconscious attempt to appear more respectable. Even young Liara, a more ferocious guard than any of the Alliance Marines at Shepard’s door, had been disarmed by her appearance as much as her limp.

“I know what you mean,” Shepard said. Her eyes fell closed, and she sighed, soft and regretful. “I don’t know if I can put an Alliance uniform on again after this. It’s almost like it belongs to... someone else.  A different me. But I don’t think I’m ready to give it all up yet. It’s the same with being a Spectre. The Council did so much wrong, but they gave me something that let me do so much good too. And outside of me and Ash, I’m not sure if there are any other Spectres left.”

She coughed again. Again, Samara endured, silently.

“I don’t agree with everything about the Order and what the Code requires,” Shepard continued, “but you did a lot of good as a Justicar, even when it was hard. The galaxy needs people who’d dive into a river to save a child from drowning. And I can’t imagine you being happy being idle.”

Shepard didn’t agree with much of the Code, or even large portions of the asari approach to law and justice, Samara knew. They’d discussed it at length, alongside Samara’s own concerns with humanity’s wildly variable, individualistic approach to such things. And wasn’t that what had first attracted her to Shepard in the first place? The growing realisation, made through the slow exploration of alien morality and moral codes, that this human commander was not some brash thug, not understanding Samara’s Oath but taking it anyway because it was expedient.  No, she was a servant of a greater good, humble, but as true to her ideals as she knew how to be. Someone who knew her own ignorance and sought to learn, who saw ignorance and sought to share.

“I don’t believe you’re suited to a life of idleness either,” Samara said. “Perhaps there is a happy medium."

"A happy medium?"

"A way for you to still still serve, but without the uniform, or the weight of such terrible responsibility.  A way for me to do good, but with more of the daring rescues and less of the, as you said, 'one size fits all approach to maintaining law and order'.  Choosing our own path.  Our own mission.  Our way."

Shepard's eyes twinkled.

“You mean, like,” her voice took on a faux-announcer cast, “‘ _she’s an alien warrior who was once part of an ancient military order_ -’”

“-and she’s a former Justicar, once sworn to uphold the Order’s strict Code,” Samara interrupted, not-quite chiding, but close. One of Shepard’s few flaws was the decidedly human tendency project her baseline experiences and expectations as the galactic norm.

“Right, right. An ex-Spectre, a possibly-former-Justicar, and together they fight crime?” Shepard finished, laughed, coughed. Samara, smiling, waited.

“Something like that,” she said when the moment passed.

“Something like that,” Shepard agreed. “I’d like that.”

Silence fell. Above Shepard’s head, Samara could see the monitors tracking her heart rate, her oxygen and a dozen less-vital things. None at levels they should be, but then the trauma Shepard had experienced was substantial. Enough that it would have been remarkable that she was here, alert, talking if she were anyone else.

As if they were melded and sharing surface thoughts, Shepard looked down at her body, frail and incomplete beneath the thin sheets. She sighed, heavy, sounding more tired and worn than Samara had felt in a thousand years of life.

“At the end...” Shepard said slowly, as if testing the waters. “On the Crucible. I... saw things. Things no-one’s meant to see. I made… choices, Samara. Decisions no one should have to make.  I don't know if I-  I mean, I think I might-”

Samara squeezed her hand, offering what comfort she could through touch alone as Shepard’s voice shook while she herself considered her next words carefully.

“I have done things no-one is meant to do,” she replied, knowing it was true. It was not just Mirala - what mother hunts and kills her own daughter? - but a legion of other things that would haunt her in the night, were doubt permitted under the Code. “I would think that makes us well matched. Help me live with those things, now, as I would help you with your burdens.”

“I see.”

Shepard was silent for a time, and Samara contented herself in observing their entwined hands, noting the differences, the similarities. Colour, texture, shape, temperature; the structure of nail and tendon, the placement of callus. So alien, and yet so alike. So alike too, her lips, quirked in a strange, crooked smile when, bidden by a tug at her hand, Samara raised her gaze to met her uncannily asari eyes. Though no asari had eyes that green through nature alone.

“Well. In that case,” Shepard said earnestly, “you should know that I’m a lousy cook. I’ve also been told I’ve got cold feet. And that I hog all the bed sheets.”

Samara laughed then, the sound burbling forth without her meaning it, surprising and joyful to her own ears.

“It is as I said, Shepard: we would be well-matched.”

**Author's Note:**

> Members of the major asari pantheon in order of appearance. Canon deities are italicized. Thanks must go to theivorytowercrumbles for maintaining the [list of canon figures](https://theivorytowercrumbles.tumblr.com/post/41581449638/canon-list-of-asari-mythological-figures), and to boshet for thought-provoking conversation, patience with my poorly-researched rambling and their help filling in the blanks.
> 
> **_Piares:_** goddess of death and (likely) rebirth. not a figure to fear but a guide that leads spirits to the afterlife and sometimes return lost loved ones to life in a new body. Here she has four aspects, reflecting each stage of the asari life cycle.  
>  ** _Kurinth:_** goddess of hunting and war.  
>  ** _Tevura:_** goddess of law, love, sex, and travel.  
>  **Rerè:** goddess of trade, commerce, learning and  
>  ** _Janiri:_** goddess of seasons, storms, and agriculture  
>  ** _Lucen:_** servant of Athame, teacher of poetry, forging, and biotics; slain for seeking the gift of prophecy. It's implied but not stated she's a goddess in her own right  
>  **Exia:** goddess of settlement/civilisation, love, family and friendship  
>  ** _Athame:_** The matriarch of the original pantheon in early asari religion, she eventually became the divinity of a monotheistic faith, goddess of prophecy and fate. In the monotheistic religion she is is the patron of the Justicar Order and has three aspects - maiden, matron and matriarch. In this fic, the idea of having multiple aspects has been co-opted from Piares.


End file.
